All Write, Already!

I wasn't a coffee drinker until I saw her.

I was more of a coffee dabbler. I loved coffee ice cream, and coffee soda, and I have a collection of those flavored international coffees for celebrating the moments of our lives (Jean-Luc!), and I would occasionally go to the Starbucks at Barnes and Noble and get a raspberry frappucino with lots of whipped cream.

The day that I walked into Caribou Coffee, I had intended to get something cloyingly sweet and creamy. I stood in line, studied the menu above the counter, chose the desserty concoction that most suited my mood, and dropped my eyes downward... and saw her. I was entranced.

She was not especially pretty in body or face. She was really very nondescript and plain looking. She wore the same uniform polo and apron over plain black slacks that the other baristas wore. The only thing about her that was different was her grace. Her hands would move from one task to the next in one smooth movement made of perfect arcs. She had this economy of movement, and yet every motion seemed to be suited to art instead of function. It was spiritual to watch her.

I was so caught up in her dance that I was taken by surprise when it was my turn to order. I was suddenly ashamed of my choice of the dessert coffee that I had originally chosen. I needed my first order to say something about my character, and I wanted to make a strong impression. I stammered an order for a double espresso with none of my usual embellishments, and was relieved when she resumed her performance so she couldn't see the color rising to my face. I was again dumbstruck, until suddenly she was at rest before me again, and I realized that I had again missed my cue. I was supposed to hand her money. I was mortified that I had caused her to pause her dance not once, but twice! I handed her some bill or another and mumbled at her to keep the change, and I retreated, my face boiling hot. I found the table farthest from the register, and resumed watching her. She went on as if I had not just ruined her performance, the consummate professional, like Shakespeare's actors reciting brilliant verse while the audience farts and belches.

I woke to find that I had been watching her for a full hour. My double espresso had become cold, bitter sludge. I knocked it back like a dose of NyQuil, and it was the most glorious tasting thing I had ever consumed. From her hands, this ambrosia... I almost cried as I drank it.

The months passed as I honed my daily visits to a ritual of worship. I learned what the peak times were, so that I could be there when it was busiest. Busy times allowed me to observe her controlled frenzy for longer, as I waited in line. I managed to never again flub my cues, though my execution of the dance would of course forever be overshadowed by her performance, as was only right.

But oh, I fell into the classic pitfall. I forgot that I am merely mortal, and began to covet the coffee goddess. If only I had been content to worship her in our silent dance!

"I was wondering if you might like to join me for a cup of coffee some time," I asked.

"Oh, no thanks..." she replied. "I never touch the stuff."